boo

rocket grimaces while you prattle on: scrubbing his knuckles against his manufactured sternum, trying to focus on complex evasive maneuvers and protecting the citizens of xandar and shooting down ronan's mercenaries. the whole time, a muscle in his jaw tics furiously along with his whiskers, and his nose keeps twitching like it's subconsciously trying to pick up your scent: sweet skin, and salt, and something like warm bread. on and on you ramble, until the heat builds up in his throat and his face and he's overcome by the urge to groom his tail, and he barks into the mic, groot! turn your damn comms off, ya frickin' moron!

he immediately cringes, of course. you're sure to have heard his voice ringing out like gunfire from groot's receiver. and groot doesn't turn his comms off, which means rocket can tell that you've just gone all silent and subdued and probably humiliated, and it makes him feel more like vermin than he has in ages.

after the battle on xandar, he'll tell himself to pretend like it never happened. but some part of him feels so bad: for embarrassing a cute little thing like you, yes — but also, for maybe ruining a nice little thing he could have had for himself. so he'll try to make it up to both of you: gruffly offering you coffee when he brews his own, making sure you're cozy and covered up when you fall asleep in the commons. letting you pick the music in the milano while you doze beside him in the cockpit and he quietly stays up late into the sleepshift, patching together a new and better gun for your weak humie hands.

volume two rocket is a little different, of course. the grief of losing groot has settled into his bones and become part of the fabric of how he understands himself, and it seems to reinforce all the evil superstitions he’s had since halfworld: that he's bad luck, bad news, a trouble-maker; he's a curse on the people he loves and everyone will be better off if he pushes 'em all away. i still doubt rocket’s coupled-up in vol2 because, as evidenced by his self-sabotage on sovereign, he still can’t let himself have nice things. so when he hears you confronting pete in a storm of whispered fury one sleepshift, his feet stagger to a halt outside the hatch.

give him a break, you’re fake-yelling in your quietest voice. it’s all fierce and soft at the same time, and his tail twitches consideringly. cute, his mind supplies, but he doesn’t acknowledge the thought.

he’s dealing with so much. his best friend’s death, and becoming a single dad basically over night, you list off at pete. not to mention your bad attitude.

for a second, rocket wonders if he should treat this as a win. score one for him in this useless, one-sided competition with pete. but then you go on.

he’s brilliant, you point out, your voice gone soft. and underneath all the surface-level jackassery, he’s sweet. deeply, deeply caring. you know you wouldn’t have won xandar without him, right? the hadron enforcer, the crashing of the warbird into the dark aster? he didn’t have to do any of that. he wanted to bail from the moment he realized what the power stone could do, and the urge only got stronger when you were telling him about your twelve-percent of a plan. your voice gentles. but he stayed. for us. even though i don’t think he’s used to being with groups of people these days, he stayed.

so give him a chance.

even if that had been all he’d overheard, it still would have launched this rocket into an identity-crisis. it sounds like you could almost be an ally in a universe of haters. but he doesn’t want to wait for the inevitable fallout when you realize you’re wrong about him. and of course, there’s that old, low voice reminding him that people who get close to him get hurt — so isn’t pushing you away for your own good, really?

but for better or worse, your praise isn’t the only thing he overhears.

you like him, pete says — not whispering at all. he sounds marvelling. i mean, you like-like him. you're attracted to him.

there’s a pause. a hush. then, your voice, entirely too casual: of course. have you seen that shoulder-to-waist ratio? that cocky swagger? my guy can get it.

then, more seriously:

he’s beautiful, pete. not just the outside. but where it counts, too.

something in rocket twists at that. he looks down at his scarred, clawed hands, with constant aches in the busted-up muscle and bone. his eyes squeeze shut, and when they reopen, they’re full of steely resolve. pete’s already saying something else when rocket slaps the sensor as hard as he can, letting the door swish open while he hums a little tune and strides nonchalantly into the commons, making a beeline for the fridge and acting like he hasn’t heard anything at all.

he knows you’ll both fall for it. humies always underestimate his hearing.

but inside — where it counts, he thinks mockingly —he firms up his decision to push you away. there's no reason for a sweet, dumb kid like you to get caught up in his bullshit. he might even be a little extra mean to you, on account of the bitter wrench of his vagus nerve every time he thinks of what he’s ruining.

but at the end of vol2? after he’s sorta started patching things up with pete? mourning yondu, whose sacrifice is nearly as painful as groot’s but somehow feels like less rocket’s fault? at the end, he’ll come find you. sit with you while you watch the last sparks of the colors of ogord stretching across the vastness of the sky.

and he’ll actually spit the words out.

sorry.

your wet eyes will go so wide at that while he clears his throat.

for bein’ a jackass, i mean.

the words are so reluctant that you can’t mistake their authenticity.

you’re a real sweetheart, and you didn’t deserve none of that.

then he slants you a knowing look from the corner of his eyes, so speculative and heated that you suddenly feel like prey, in the most ticklish and toe-curling way possible.

m’gonna make it up to you, doll.

let’s say we’re in the interim space between volume 2 and infinity war. things are pretty comfortable now, you know? the guardians are getting regular work. they’ve more-or-less figured out how to navigate each others’ idiosyncrasies with relative ease, despite the fact that bickering just seems to be part of their general team dynamic. they’ve got enough good money, good repute, and good will that rocket himself can pick up at least one exotica-chasing famefucker in every dive-bar he frequents — and he would, if he weren’t so hung up on you. honestly, the most difficult thing in his life right now is probably just dealing with an adolescent groot.

what i’m saying is, pre-infinity war rocket would be thrilled to snatch up a cutie like you if you showed an interest. he probably wouldn’t believe you’d stick around for long, but he’d take whatever he could get. a cycle? a quarter? a circ? he’s here for it, gorgeous.

and if he happens to overhear you and gamora one night, talking about your respective love-lives over a shared box of cheap contraxian greenwine — well, what’s a guy to do but listen in? maybe he’ll get an idea of how to keep you around a little longer. he knows he doesn’t bring much to the table. he’s not sweet or soft or romanticalistic. he kinda sucks, frankly, and he doesn’t have anything to offer that might make him worthy of your time — other than multiple mind-splintering consecutive orgasms on any given sleepshift. but hey. he’s never been one to ignore a good tip that might help him win a bounty.

he’s perfect, you’re telling gamora. you’ve got that squishy-sweet, warm-marshmallow tone to your voice, like you’re talking about someone you love, and there’s a moment of confusion and a flare of jealousy before he thinks, wait — maybe you’re talking about him?

can’t be, he thinks flatly. his ears swivel and strain toward you.

you have a crush on him, gamora says mildly, and you laugh.

isn’t that a good thing? you tease. aren’t i supposed to have a crush on my boyfriend?

heat floods into his throat and his face, suddenly sweltering under his fur. his whiskers flicker as he licks his lips, inexplicably nervous.

he isn’t perfect, gamora reminds you. she only sounds amused — not like she really thinks you need to be warned — but it hollows him out anyway.

no shit, gams, he thinks bitterly.

but you huff a breath, and there’s a soft rustle — like you’ve playfully shoved the zeherobei, and she’s let you.

he’s perfect for me, you tell her seriously, and he feels every hardened ridge of muscle in his face and shoulders suddenly melt.

well then, gamora says agreeably — indulgently. i suppose that’s all that matters.

rocket’s eyes flicker closed and his ears flatten. the way he feels about you? — yeah, he’s so screwed. but he broadens his shoulder and lengthens his spine, and raps his knuckles on the hatch before he enters — almost like he’s got manners or something.

hate to interrupt the party, he lies nonchalantly, leaning against the doorframe and studying you through hooded eyes while his tail flicks lazily behind him. he’s never been as grateful for fur as he is right now, with his hidden cheeks still blushing and needy. he arches one brow — cool as a fronnish midnight — and says only, i need to steal the sweetheart for a minute.

that’s how he refers to you, of course, even when it makes him cringe internally. the sweetheart — as if you belong to the whole crew — but never his, even though you two are so obviously exclusive right now. it’s just that… he’s kinda afraid that if he claims you that way, he’ll jinx it.

but you only smile — warm and wide-eyed and sightly tipsy — and take his hand to follow him out the hatch and down the corridor, toward your shared bunk.

yeah, rocket doesn’t have anything worthy to give you outside of a slew of nerve-shattering orgasms — but he’s gonna make sure to give you more of them than you can handle.

post-infinity war rocket is a whole different story. he’s lost his whole frickin’ family — again — but this time he’s got some sort of purpose, even if it’s just a self-appointed one. for the first year, it’s figure out a way to bring ‘em back. for the last year, it’s pretty much the same. and for all the time in the middle? that’s spent clinging to the work pete left behind: make the galaxy a better place, ‘cause i’m one of the idiots who lives in it.

at least, that’s how it starts.

but then he’d met you — an intern from stark industries, perhaps, or an assistant to nat. hell, maybe you’re just the cute little housekeeper, picking up some extra hours from mister stark by sweeping out the avengers compound because none of earth’s mightiest heroes can deign to work a mop, apparently. rocket sees you and fully stops in his tracks before nebula nearly steps on his tail and practically falls right over him.

it’s just that — you know — he hadn’t realized that terra had lookers like you.

you see him, and your eyes round out and your mouth drops to a glossy little o and suddenly he’s getting way too hot under the sleek new synth-leather suit (of his own design, thank you very much). the circs prior to the snap have given him some unexpected confidence when it comes to luring short-term lovers into his bed — but after he’s masterminded a few not-so-accidental run-ins with you, he realizes with a sickening lurch that he’s inadvertently let himself daydream about having you for the long-term.

he sweats it out for the next few cycles, staying away from terra longer than he has in ages. rejection seems way more risky now, when it’s clear you’re even sweeter than your candy-slick lips.

eventually, though — sleepless and restless and so cranky that even nebs is raspily asking what the fuck’s on his mind — he returns, and somehow all his run-ins with you start to become lengthier. and flirtier. and way more frequent. soon, he’s making excuses to go back to terra so often and lingering so long that nebula rolls her eyes and asks if he wants to move you onto the benatar — make you part of their tiny crew. when they land at the compound, you’re the first person he greets, usually with a smirk and hooded eyes and a swishing tail, and a smoky-low purr of miss me, gorgeous?

and if one or two of the more-dickheaded avengers start giving you dubious glances of concern or disgust when you let him sit in your lap and lean subtly back against your chest — or when you take all your breaks and meals in alignment with his — or when you blink at him with big beautiful new-moon pupils and ask him to him take you on yet another ‘private tour’ of the benatar — well, you seem to let their judgement roll off you without a shred of self-consciousness.

still — it must bother you, right? these pompous jackasses sign your paychecks, and now they’re giving you dirty looks. it makes rocket boil with rage and he wants — more than anything — to defend you and tell ‘em to get their ugly frickin’ mugs right. but that seems like it would probably just get you in trouble, and he’s pretty sure you need this job based on the way you always seem to try and keep under their radar.

which is why he’s so shocked when he hears you draw attention to yourself. you can’t see him, he realizes — he’s half-buried in yet another substandard piece of terran tech that the other avengers need him to repair — and the three most-judgy jackasses have all forgotten he’s around, as per frickin’ usual.

oh, good, all the people i needed to talk to are in one room, you say, your voice pleasant but firm.

what do you need? one of the three says — courteous, of course, as they always are. but rocket’s always been good at picking up on peoples’ tells, and he can hear the uncertainty and faint condescension under the question.

i’d like you to stop fucking look at me like i’m diseased, you say with such over-the-top and professional politeness that rocket’s brain short-circuits on the f-bomb.

there’s a startled moment of hush, and then one of them scrambles to say, no-one’s looking at you like—

please don’t try to gaslight me, you interrupt them mildly. it won’t work.

you draw a deep breath. he can’t see you from his position inside the machine, but he knows the way your chest swells with your inhalation.

my boyfriend is brilliant. he’s smarter than all of you combined. he puts everything on hold to fix your crap because he’s the only one who can, especially since mister stark doesn’t come on-site anymore. he’s got a better grasp of strategy than this entire team, and he adapts to any weird thing that comes up in any given situation. he barely reacts when you talk shit about him — even though we all know he could eviscerate any one of you with a single sentence — and he still accepts all the random bullshit-missions you give him, even when they’re a waste of his time. he’s resourceful and creative and beautiful and brave, and he’s not a fucking animal.

and he doesn’t like the way you look at me, so kindly knock it the fuck off.

he’s frozen inside the machine, eyelids fluttering and nose flaring as he catches the scent of you under the engine grease and hot metal. the three offenders are silent for a moment before he hears an abashed jumble of muffled apologies, each one muted with shame.

he waits till you leave. the three jerks sit in silence for a while — then trail away, one-by-one. when he’s sure the coast is clear, he hops out of his hideaway and comes to find you: diligently doing your thing, working away. your eyes always sparkle when you see him, and you drop a sweet kiss between his ears, and you don’t offer a single hint that you’ve been off saying such soft, furious things about him to people who could crush you with a single blow.

he hoists himself neatly onto a nearby chair, tugging you so that you turn to face him. his whiskers twitch and his lips twist in a grimace, and he watches your eyes grow shadowed with worry.

is everything okay? you ask slowly. he can almost see the churn of your thoughts: that something bad has happened, or that he’s going into space and never coming back, or that maybe he’s breaking things off with you. he flinches at that, then reaches out impulsively: smoothing his thumb over the divot of concern carved into your furrowed brow.

no, he rasps. i mean, yeah. I mean, i was just thinkin’ — you know, none of these dickheads appreciate you the way you deserve to be ‘preciated. he hesitates, ears flattening and head cocking as he eyes you speculatively. you could come starside with me and nebs, you know. see if you like it. i bet stark would hold your spot on the payroll if you wanted him to. you could meet kraglin and cosmo.

now that he’s opened his mouth, he can’t stop the words from chasing each other over his tongue. they masquerade as nonchalant, but anyone would be able to tell: they’re desperate. greedy.

nebs and i are thinkin’ about buyin’ some real estate up there. a city. a sort of… headquarters-thing. you could — you could have your own place there, if you wanted. the place needs to be rebuilt from the ground-up, so it’d be easy to make a place for you there. to do whatever you wanted.

you blink at him, wide-eyed. nebula’s okay with this? you ask the question like you’re measuring each word. you’re sure you’re okay with this?

he swallows. to be honest, his only uncertainty comes from the fear you’ll turn him down.

we been talking about it for a while, he admits. me and nebs. she’s on board and i — yeah. i’m sure, doll. real frickin’ sure.

your eyes search his, and when the smile breaks across your face, it’s prettier than an indigarran sunrise on a glass cathedral.

i’d love that, you confess. i’ll just need to say goodbye to a few people, turn in my notice—

relief pours over him like a fancy sportoi honey, syrupy-sweet and golden.

already got the resignation letter drafted, sweetheart, he tells you with a smug-sharp grin. think any of these jackasses can read kree?

yeah, the middle years of the snap start off with rocket fixated on fulfilling pete’s mission: making the galaxy a better place, ‘cause he’s one of the dickheads living in it. but soon, almost all he can think about is making the galaxy a better place—

—because you live in it.

post-endgame rocket spends almost as much time on civil engineering as he does on shipcraft and weaponsmithing these days, and he finds himself surprisingly not mad about it. there's something both hopeful and hollowing about turning the skull into a giant flying machine for himself and all the citizens of exitar — though he doesn't let himself examine the feeling to closely.

he hasn't eaten all day — he often forgets when you're not around to remind him — so he snags an orloni-on-a-stick from the street vendor and settles himself on a bone-plaster bench outside of mantlo's, under the mezzanine, while he eats. he's not really thinking clearly: too tired from working on upgrading the power grid in the mandible — and now he’s got low blood sugar, too.

adding to his exhaustion is the fact that you'd had plans with hoobtoe and ssssaralami last night and hadn't gotten home till late, and rocket just never sleeps well when you're not around. his insomnia had already been bad before he'd met you; now, he worries. constantly. are you okay? are you safe? are you happy? he knows how fickle the universe can be and though he'll never give voice to it — wouldn't want to cramp your style or make you think he's frickin' clingy — he's always anxious till you're back in his arms or his bed.

which is all to say he doesn't mean to eavesdrop. in the past, he might have seized on the opportunity to gather intel so he could run a better con (and in this case, the con is keeping you interested, keeping you coming back to him, keeping you, full-stop). but nowadays he feels kind guilty about listening in, at least when it involves his friends.

still, this time, it’s not his fault! he hadn't realized you were up there on the mezzanine. perhaps his nose had flared subconsciously, picking up your presence, but he'd just assumed that the scent was all that had been left of your touch this morning lingering on his clothes, or maybe some wishful thinking. in fact, it's mantis he hears first: squealing with excitement and awe.

you love him! you really, really love him!

he barely registers it at first. but then, your voice filters down to his ears, urgent and hushed.

quiet! you don't need to tell the whole city!

his stomach lurches, suddenly roped into knots of dread and doom. you? you love who, exactly?

the orloni suddenly seems far less appetizing than it had a moment ago. he stares at it gloomily.

most of the neighborhood already suspects, mantis tells you eagerly, apparently oblivious to your discomfort. they just can't confirm the way i can. another stifled squeal. i'm just so excited! you really love him! you want to kiss him all the time, and make him happy, and—

of course i do, you interrupt sharply — but then the strain in your voice softens. rocket’s the best person i know.

he blinks at his orloni. his ears perk straight up on his head.

don’t be embarassed! mantis urges, squeaky in her excitement. isn’t this what friends are supposed to do? talk about how much they adore their lovers? I never got to do this before!

mantis…

she ignores you protests. please! please tell me more!

there’s a pause, and then you huff a soft laugh. okay, okay. i do really like talking about him.

another pause, and then you sigh: a floaty little sound, dreamy and so sweet it makes rocket’s chest ache.

it takes a while for him to warm up to things, you confide in hushed tones — almost a whisper that his ears are nevertheless still able to pick up. but once he's in, it's wholehearted. he doesn't do anything by halves. and he might roll his eyes and pretend to be gruff—

pretend?

—but he cares so much about the people around him.

your tone turns wistful — almost sad.

he underestimates himself. he doesn't realize how brave he is. how selfless. how good he is for this universe, even when he's not killing bad guys and saving lives. how good he is for me.

and? mantis asks. she's practically goading you. it's not the first time that rocket's wondered if she gets kinda buzzed on other peoples emotions.

and he's funny. he can hear the half-smile quirking your mouth as the tension in your voice eases a little. you seem to melt into your little library of praise. he says the most unhinged shit sometimes, and i burst out laughing before i even realize it. his grumpiness is so endearing. and—

he thinks he can hear you blush.

his attitude's kind of hot, you admit. when he's — a little mean.

you think he's cute, mantis says gleefully, and you snort.

of course i think my boyfriend's cute. a sigh, indulgent and dreamy. he's pretty, too. the prettiest eyes i've ever seen. his fur is like... i don't know. silky little feathers. and he smells like black pepper and autumn forests. i love everything about him.

his vision blurs. he swallows.

and is he good in bed? mantis asks, and rocket's ears immediately flatten. he tips his head back and glowers up at the bottom of the mezzanine.

jesus, mantis, you mutter under your breath. there's a silence, as if you're taking a long swallow of your drink, and then he hears you sigh again — almost grudgingly. you've seen how good he is with his hands. and... i mean. i don't like to kiss and tell, but the baculum bone does a lot for me, okay? he's fucking relentless. and curved. and— another hesitation. —look. there's this thing he does with his tail — never mind.

his spine straightens, almost unconsciously. he feels his shoulders broaden as his chest puffs up a little bit, and the edge of a smirk tilts his mouth.

have you told him yet? mantis asks. that you love him?

no, rocket's brain supplies, but he waits for your answer. silence falls on the mezzanine above, and lingers so long that it finds the edge and drips between the railing, coating the walkway where he sits on his bone-plaster bench.

no, you say at last, and you sound — sad. worried. anxious. and you can’t say anything, either. to anyone.

why not? the empath asks, and rocket’s brow furrows too. he can imagine the quiet half-shrug of one of your perfect shoulders, pensive and apologetic.

i don't know if he's ready to hear it yet, you confess, and the words break apart at the end. his heart twists painfully in his chest, thudding against his prosthetic sternum.

and i'm afraid he'll leave if i say it too soon.

the conversation wilts for a moment — then turns to something inane and silly. rocket sits: still and quiet, studying his uneaten orloni with vague eyes for the better part of an hour before he quietly gets up and goes on his way. he's lucky no-one called out to him while he was sitting beneath you, listening in like a little fuckin' creep. now he palms the back of his neck as he strides away, flushed under his fur with satisfaction and pleasure and anxiety and dread, and he mulls over your words.

you stop by later with bread and yaro-root jam and grilled orloni, smiling as you tease him, claiming that you know he didn't eat today. you're right, of course, though not for lack of trying. as the sleepshift turns over, concern stitches its way slowly into your brow, and eventually you ask if he's all right. he is, he tells you. just got a lot on his mind.

then — then he makes good use of those hands you'd mentioned liking so much. and the baculum bone. and the tail. a little reward, he thinks to himself. for saying such sweet things behind his back.

it's a few cycles of this, you know. of him exhausting you, wringing every bit of pleasure out of you till you're sobbing and delirious. washing you up so tenderly. you feel pleasantly bruised and buzzed and swollen pretty much all the time: a constant heat in your cheeks, puzzled at whatever's got your already-insatiable lover acting almost-too generous these days.

and while you’re distracted and half-drink on orgasms, he spends those cycles ruminating on your words — then deciding what to do next.

then scraping up the courage to do it. because despite what you told mantis, he ain't brave at all.

finally, early late one sleepshift, when the skull is dark and quiet and glittery, rocket rolls onto his belly and props himself on his elbows, and finds himself staring at you. you're all sleepy-eyed, with a little curve lingering at the edge of your mouth like a kiss, body still shimmering with sweat. you give him a dreamy, dopey smile with your lashes fluttering closed, and he reaches out and strokes a thumb across your eyebrow: counting every little hair, memorizing the silky arch.

look at me, he urges, and he waits till you manage to widen both your eyes and focus on him. a smug canine flashes, because it clearly takes some effort. you lookin', sweetheart?

uh-huh, you say, artless and open.

he drags in a breath and tries to collect the jagged, glistening edges of his shattered nerves. his muscles are coiled and tense, and his mouth is sour with anxiety. he keeps his eyes on you, red as cut-rubies — drinking you up as if you're the only constant in the galaxy, and you can pull him through the agonizing uncertainty of this moment. then he leans in, just enough to briefly prod his soft nose against the spot under your chin, before pulling back to hold your gaze steadily.

just wanted to tell you i love you.

captain rocket, post-volume-three, may be my favorite of them all (jk i don't have favorites). he's still got his bad moments — at least a few times a day —but he's a little more open to believing that happiness could maybe be in his grasp, and that he's not obligated to keep denying himself forever.

and he's more confident of you.

he comes to find you one night when the Boot is closing down, and howard and the broker and steemie have all turned in for the night. he's pretty sure you're hanging out with groot and kraglin on the observation deck, where all three of you like to dangle your legs over the edge like it doesn't give him a vertigo-induced panic attack to see you hovering over the void.

sure enough, there you are — the three of you passing around a bottle of indigarran sotol as you chatter quietly against the stars.

you’re happy? he overhears kraglin asking.

so happy, you confess, and even though rocket doesn’t know what you’re talking about yet, something warm unfurls in his ribs in his ribs. if you’re happy for now, that means you’ll stick around for a while, right? no sense in changing things when it’s all going good.

yeah, he thinks. you're here for the long haul.

he makes me happy, you continue on, your voice all buzzy with alcohol and syrupy-sweet. the warmth in rocket's chest suddenly flutters down to his fingertips and toes, up along his cheeks and into his ears. oh, sweetheart. are you gushing about him?

he's so sweet, you say.

i am groot, groot chortles, and you half-turn to swat rocket’s son.

he is! he’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever met.

are we talking about the same guy? kraglin asks, and rocket can't tell if the ravager is teasing you, or if he's actually confused.

okay, okay. you roll your eyes and swat kraglin, too. i mean it, though. maybe he's not sweet in, like, the usual way. he’s more likely to give me firearms than flowers. but he’s so… thoughtful. he knows me so well. he looks out for me — not just when we’re fighting the monster of the week, but in all our interactions. he does this thing — my god, it fucking melts me. snarking at me, being sarcastic, making fun of me, being gruff and borderline-mean — but the whole time, he's like. making sure to walk on the side of me that's the closest to the street. doing the dishes because he knows i hate doing the dishes. giving me the galaxy's best shoulder rubs. making my life better in a hundred tiny little ways, without ever asking for anything back.

rocket leans up against one of the lightposts, ears swiveled toward you, tail swaying indolently behind him. maybe he's fooled you into thinking he's better than he is. maybe the universe has just fooled him into thinking he's worse than he is. for the moment, he doesn't care. he just basks in the golden glow of your words. he's learned not to look a gifted gun down the barrel, you see. and for whatever fuckin' reason, the universe decided to gift you to him. so he's gonna lap up every frickin’ drop.

his ears flick as you let out a soft little sigh, and your words wobble when you speak again.

i've thought about it a lot, and i think — no, i know. i somehow feel happier even when we're at our worst — together — than i do at my best with anyone else.

his heart stutters, then sweeps in his chest: straining against his ribs with something like happiness.

okay, he tells himself, scrubbing his knuckles against his sternum and shaking his head, hiding the quiet bemused grin tucked into the corner of his mouth. okay, enough. he forces himself to take one last breath: inhaling the clean cold light of the stars and the citrusy sting of the alcohol, enjoying the warm butterfly-wing flutter in his belly and the sweetness and pride in his chest, the pleased twitch in his tail.

you're happy, you'd said. he makes you happy.

so as far as he can tell, he’s not doing too bad.

he lets out the breath and strolls up to the edge of the deck where the three of you sit.

cap'n! kraglin squawks, offering up the bottle. rocket tips his head consideringly, then takes a swallow of the bright, sunny sotol. the warmth in his ribs magnifies. he passes off the bottle to groot, rests a delicately-clawed hand at the base of your lovely throat, and forces your face upward. the nip at your lips is your only warning to open up before his tongue sinks between your lips, as strong and clean and honeyed as the sotol, licking every bit of the alcohol's lingering flavor from your mouth. you sway against the heat of his hand on your throat, a thankful little moan vibrating against his palm.

i am groot, groot mutters in delighted mock-disgust. rocket ignores him, lingering over your mouth before he pulls away and rolls his eyes, licking his tongue over his teeth to chase your flavor.

heard i make you happy, sweetheart, he purrs against your lips. your heart trips over your ribs and he chuckles, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. he shifts forward, sliding his cheek along your temple so he can flick his tongue against your rounded humie ear, the rasp of his whisper lighting up all your nerves along the way.

let's go home so i can make you even happier.

you immediately lean back and wriggle yourself away from the edge before climbing to your feet.

gotta-go-bye! you chirrup brightly to krags and groot, all transparent and joyful impatience. thanks for tonight; you're the best; see you tomorrow!

your hand finds his and you tug him along behind you, and he grins, pleased and smug and fuckin' happy; probably happier than he's ever been, even once in his whole entire frickin’ life.

the key, he thinks, is you. he's gonna make sure you stay happy too.

and he’s gonna do whatever he can to keep you that way for a long, long time.

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